


when floods they came or tides they raised (ever closer became us)

by deanmonsandangels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, TW: Panic Attacks, post 15x18, tw: internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27917482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanmonsandangels/pseuds/deanmonsandangels
Summary: “I never prayed before you.” he settles on hoarsely. His throat is sandpaper and his tongue feels like it’s wrapped in cotton.Post 15x18. Fix-it
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 31
Kudos: 359





	when floods they came or tides they raised (ever closer became us)

**Author's Note:**

> This was truly a labor of love that consumed all my free time since two nights before the finale (what finale?). I couldn’t get image of Dean singing “future days” to Cas out of my head, and so this happened.

He comes across it on a hunt one day. 

They’re wrapping up a Wendigo case in a town somewhere in upper Wyoming — Dean can’t remember the name now— when they happen upon an abandoned music shop. 

The sunburst body gleams in the corner of his eye - the sun fittingly reflecting off one of the tuning keys.

An acoustic Taylor six-string. 

Dean smiles and chuckles low in his throat. “Hey Sam,” he calls over, and his little brother spins around to face Dean from where he stands next to a rack of vinyls. 

“Yeah?”

“Check it out,” Dean says, striding over to where the guitar is sitting on the floor leaning against one of the walls. He wraps a hand gingerly around the neck, his other hand coming to grip against the back.

It’s a little dusty, probably been here for some time. Dean lifts the guitar so that it’s a few inches from his face and blows forcefully, flecks of dust catching in the stream of sunlight that cants through the window behind his shoulder.

The corners of Dean’s eyes crinkle as he lets out a soft hum of laughter. He angles the guitar in both hands to get a proper look at it.

The mahogany neck with an ebony fretboard is sturdy in his grip, and Dean runs his thumb along the strings. They squeak slightly at the friction against the callus. His other hand runs over the satin sunburst wood, and he lifts the instrument so that the sound hole is a few inches from his face. He bends down and inhales deeply.

He hears Sam snort fondly from across the room. Dean lifts his head and gives a look, like Sam is the weirdest dude in the world.

“What? They always smell so good, man. Want a sniff?” He tilts the guitar in Sam’s direction in offering.

Sam puts up a hand in protest and cocks an eyebrow at his older brother. “Nah, I’m good,” he says, with a breathy chuckle.

Dean shrugs. “Ah, you’re missin’ out,” he chastises, and lowers the guitar in his hands to look it over again.

That’s when he sees it.

On the fretboard, underneath his thumb.

Wings.

Dean’s eyes soften, and he smiles. 

—

He practices whenever he’s not on a hunt.

Sometimes he’ll watch online tutorials, and sometimes he’ll just pluck away at the strings in different variations. He remembers the basics from that summer at Sonny’s — which string belongs to which chord, how to tune and how to change the strings when they get flimsy. 

Sometimes Dean will practice in his room, sometimes on the bunker’s roof. 

Most days, he finds himself practicing in the library, with his socked feet kicked up on the table, guitar cradled against his stomach and thighs, with a glass of whiskey nearby. 

He hums a lot when he plays. And when Cas appears in the entryway, Dean smiles by way of greeting.

Cas doesn’t miss how the gold flecks in Dean’s eyes sparkle in the ambient lighting. 

—

_“The one thing I want...is something I know  
I can’t have.”_

_“You are the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being...I will ever know.”_

_“Knowing you has changed me.”_

_“I love you.”_

He can hardly breathe through the stifling sobs. They crawl their way from deep within his gut and up his throat, punching out with guttural sounds. He chokes on the grief that grips his throat in a vice. 

His phone continues to vibrate on the cement ground. It’s deafening. 

Tears spill like rivers whose dams have been broken. 

Just like him. 

When he goes to his room later that night, the wings gleam mockingly in the glow of the lamp on his bedside table. As if the guitar knows. 

Fresh tears fall silently down his cheeks.

_“Goodbye, Dean.”_

—

Dean can’t play anymore after Cas is gone. He can barely bring himself to look at it. He had so many dreams about playing it one day.

For him.

In the days following Chuck’s demise and Jack’s ascension, Dean grabs a canvas drop cloth from the garage and takes the guitar from where it sits in the corner of his bedroom. A film of dust covers the instrument.

He wraps it in the cloth before carrying it with both arms down the bunker’s halls. 

“Dean?” Sam asks as he meets Dean’s stride. “What are you doing?”

Dean just shakes his head, and makes no further effort to respond. His pace quickens, and Sam falls behind until the only footsteps Dean hears are his own. 

He keeps walking until he rounds the corner, and he stands in front of the door. He can’t bring himself to look at it, so he focuses his eyes on his boots instead. But he knows.

_**7B**_

When his hand grasps the knob, his eyes start to sting. 

The door opens and closes. Dean keeps his eyes fixed to the floor until the devil’s trap comes into view, and then he lifts his head.

The wall. 

Tears cascade down his face without a blink. There seems to be no shortage of them; they slide and slide and slide down his cheeks and he feels them drip down his chin onto his chest. 

He walks across the room until the wall is inches from his face. He places the guitar gingerly on the ground, the neck with the wings and headstock resting against where the Empty had swallowed everything inside of him whole.

Dean reaches into his back pocket and takes out his folded knife. He slices his right hand open, and the sting of it is grounding, relieving. He relishes it.

Dean makes a fist, and watches blood pool into his palm before pressing it against the cinder block. 

When a sob starts to claw its way out past his throat, he rests his forehead against the cold stone.

He cries. For the first time since that day, he lets himself crumble under the enormousness of his grief. 

“I’m so sorry.”

—

He thinks it must have been love for it to hurt this much.

At first, after the dust started to settle, he wasn’t sure if he had misunderstood. If what Cas felt for him was the same as humans being in love. If it was the same desperate, craving, all-consuming love or if it was a different thing altogether for a celestial being.

But in the weeks after defeating Chuck, as Dean contemplated and ruminated on the past twelve years, he saw then that Cas had been declaring his love and speaking his truth all along.

It was always there. In every _I’ll go with you._ In every healing touch. In every embrace. In every answered prayer. In every sacrifice.

Dean just couldn’t see it. Or maybe he was just afraid to let himself believe. To see. To hope.

He grips his jacket and buries his head into the green fabric, right where Castiel’s bloody handprint lays. The gentle breeze of dusk sweeps through his hair and rustles the branches high above in the towering trees, the dead leaves catching a ride in its wake.

Dean lifts his head to gaze upon the lake in front of him. The kaleidoscope of the sunset’s colors are reflecting on the surface now, the sun’s final rays dancing on the water. 

He thinks about Cas as he stares at the setting sun. He thinks about Hell, and how this must have been how Cas appeared to all of the wretched souls when he came to receive him: a brilliant, shining beacon; a glowing orb, gripping him tight.

His heart aches. 

Dean cranes his neck back from where he sits on Baby’s hood, and looks at the stars that start to pepper the canvas of the evening sky. He breathes in the cool, crisp air and closes his eyes.

“Hello.”

Dean whirls around, his legs swinging over the side of the car before he registers his own movements. Something soft blossoms in his chest, dulling the throbbing ache behind his ribs.

“Jack,” he smiles. His boots hit the ground and Dean’s striding over to envelope him in a hug. Jack’s arms come to wrap around Dean’s back, and Dean squeezes his surrogate son tightly. It’s the first time he’s able to take a cleansing breath in weeks.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean says, and then he winces because it’s so easy to forget. He pulls away with a grimace on his face. 

“Ah — sorry, I probably shouldn’t call you that anymore huh?” 

Jack just smiles and waves a hand. “It’s fine,” he says, and Dean can’t help the small ache of pride that’s budding in his chest.

There’s such an air of confidence around him now. A true sense of omniscience. Contentedness. Of purpose found.

The corners of Dean’s mouth turn up in a small smile. He scans Jack up and down before cupping his face with one hand.

“You look good,” Dean says wistfully before patting Jack’s cheek. His hand falls with a slap against his thigh.

Jack smiles, and his arms fall behind his back. 

“Thank you. I am. Good, I mean.”

He tilts his head at Dean before speaking again, and in this moment, Dean thinks Jack looks just like his father. 

There’s a pang in his gut. But also fondness.

Something resembling concern darts across Jack’s face. “You don’t, though.” And his eyes take on that soulful, deep sadness Dean has seen too many times on the kid. 

Dean sighs with a shrug, and turns away from Jack to look at the moon as it begins its ascent into the ink-purple sky. The moon’s glow bouncing off the clouds makes it look like it’s surrounded by a halo.

Dean drops his gaze again to the nephilim-turned-God, and he sniffs as he kicks the dirt with the toe of his boot.

“Nah...I’m not,” he whispers with a rueful shake of his head.

Silence settles between them for a moment. The wind blows, and it’s gentle and soothing across Dean’s cheeks. The slight chill that erupts over his skin feels not unlike tending to a bruise with ice.

“I wanted to let you know,” Jack begins as he steps closer to Dean, “that Eileen is back. She’s at the bunker with Sam. He’s explaining everything that happened. Donna, Jody, and the girls are all back too. They’re safe.”

Dean blows out a breath he hadn’t registered he was holding before sagging his shoulders, not realizing the amount of tension he kept in the muscles there. He twists his body to pull Jack in for another hug.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he whispers thickly. 

Jack’s hands rest on Dean’s shoulder blades. “I’m just fixing the mess Chuck made. All is now as it should be.”

Almost.

Dean steps back and claps Jack on the shoulder, eyes brimming with tears that he doesn’t let fall. Jack gives a small, proud smile as his eyes flicker ever so briefly above Dean’s right shoulder to the giant oak tree behind them. Dean doesn’t notice.

Jack glances down to the dirt for a fleeting moment. “I would have brought him back sooner, but —“ he meets Dean’s eyes again “—I needed his help with some things.” And Jack’s eyes flick up to the sky before sheepishly meeting Dean’s gaze again.

It hits Dean then. 

He turns on his heel, and standing under the giant oak tree in the moonlight, about twenty five yards away, is Castiel.

Dean’s eyes go wide as his breath staunters in lungs, mouth going as dry as the Sahara in the dead of summer. His heart pounds as his ears ring, chest feeling like it’s cracking open; bursting and releasing the pressure that has been building and building there since that night. His legs turn into lead, and his feet feel like they somehow grew roots.

“Cas?” Dean croaks out in a barely audible sound. The angel blinks and gives the smallest, almost indecipherable of nods, almost like he’s afraid to move.

“Hello, Dean.” 

It’s that same gravel voice, the same cerulean blue stare, the same friggin’ coat without a speck of black goo on it. The trepidation is tangible in the space between them.

Dean stretches out a hand, palm face down, almost like he’s trying to calm a traumatized victim, to show that he’s not a threat. 

Cas’s eyes stare back into his, but they flicker back and forth between Dean and Jack. It’s a tic, Dean knows, that he does when he’s nervous.

Dean feels like he’s moving through molasses, like there are shackles on his ankles attached to concrete as he steps slowly towards Cas, hand still outstretched. 

“Are you-” and then he’s turning back to look at Jack. “Is he-?”

Jack nods, lips pressed into a thin smile, and it’s enough for Dean because he turns back to face Castiel, legs moving again, still ever so slowly. 

Crickets start to chirp in the distance. Some breed of owl hoots, and the lake ripples gently against the shore.

Dean reaches out both hands, gripping the beige covered shoulders before pulling Cas into his chest.

Dean’s arms grip him in a bruising, cocooning hug. He has one arm across the span of Cas’s back and the other is wrapped high and tight around his shoulders, hand cupping the angel’s head. Dean curls his fingers into the velvet muss of black hair.

Dean nearly melts when Cas immediately reciprocates and envelopes him. He dips his nose into the crook of Cas’s neck and he’s finally, finally, able to breathe.

Dean doesn’t stop the single tear that slips down his cheek. In lieu of words, Dean lets a shuddering sob speak for him. Cas’s grip tightens in response. 

Dean can’t see the tear that falls from the corner of Castiel’s eye as he closes them.

“Dean,” he starts. But Dean pulls back slightly, hands coming up to cup Cas’s face, fingers still in his hair. He lifts Cas’s jaw so that he can search his eyes.

“Cas,” he breathes through a sniffle, his thumb swiping across Cas’s cheekbone to smooth out the lone tear track. His heart aches when Cas ever so slightly leans into his touch.

“I have to go,” comes the voice from behind them, and Dean whirls around to face Jack, one hand falling to his thigh and the other resting on Cas’s shoulder. 

“Be well,” Jack says with a smile, hand raised in a wave. He starts to turn away when Dean finds his voice.

“Jack!” he calls out. The new God meets Dean’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Dean grits out around the tears lodged in his throat.

Jack smiles. “All as it should be.” 

And then he’s gone with a whoosh.

—

Dean heaves a heavy sigh before turning to meet Cas’s eyes again. Moss green and ethereal blue. Both hands return to the angel’s cheeks, and Dean lets his fingers stroke the strands of hair below his ears. 

“You okay?” Dean questions, eyes narrowed and lips pulled taut in a straight line. He feels his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows and wets his lips. “I mean, did the Empty —”

Cas seems unsure of what to do with his hands; first he lets them lay lax at his sides, and then he tentatively lifts them dismissively.

“I’m fine, Dean,” he answers stiffly, as if his well-being is of no concern. “I wasn’t there that long before Jack summoned me.” 

A sigh of relief punches out from Dean’s lungs as he drops his head, chin to chest. 

“Thank God for that kid,” Dean says, and then he rolls his eyes at himself. He lifts his head to search the angel’s face, because he still stands rigid, unmoving.

“That’s a bit redundant,” Cas deadpans, and Dean can’t help the chuckle that escapes him as he half-nods.

“Yeah, a little.”

There’s a beat of silence for a moment until Dean’s eyes fall on Cas’s hands between them. 

“You can touch me, y’know,” he murmurs as he meets Cas’s eyes. His fingers caress the nape of Cas’s neck. “I mean...if you want. I ain’t gonna break.”

Cas’s eyes widen ever so slightly, flickering his gaze from one green eye to the other before he shakes his head minutely, causing one of Dean’s hands to fall. The sigh he gives sounds like defeat.

“I know you won’t.”

Dean shoots him a pointed, questioning look. Cas’s voice is so bereaved and dejected, and the quality of it jerks him back into his memory.

_I think it’s time for me to move on._

“Dean,” Cas begins, and his eyes are heavy in something soft and broken. “What I said before, that night —” and suddenly Castiel can’t meet Dean’s eyes anymore and he’s pulling away from Dean’s hold and Dean feels a pang of rejection in his gut as Cas steps out of his space completely.

Dean’s stomach drops. The wind blows again, and the fallen leaves swirl in a circle around their feet.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” Cas absolves, voice becoming more steady and firm with each syllable.”I know that I’m simply a friend, a weapon in battle, a comrade in arms to you.” and then Cas is taking another step back to put more distance between them before meeting Dean’s eyes again.

“I know that that’s all there is for you here. And that’s okay,” he smiles, waving a hand between them before letting it fall to his side. “I didn’t say it to hear it back, or for some alterior motive.” he explains gently. “I said it so that you would know. Because in speaking that truth—acknowledging that truth, even for just a moment — I finally found that happiness.” Cas‘s smile widens, eyes glassy, and Dean feels like he’s going to throw up because Cas looks just like he did before—

“I know it’s not reciprocated,” he says with the barest hint of sadness that somehow sounds more like reassurance, “and it’s okay, Dean. It really is. You don’t need to feel obligated. You don’t need to feel guilty. I’m at peace. I’m conten—”

“Stop.”

Dean finally finds his voice, but it’s harsher than he meant for it to be. He gapes his mouth open, closes it again. He licks his lips. His heart is hammering against his ribs, and the ringing in his ears returns. He can feel his hands trembling. 

Cas blinks and squints, then visibly resigns. 

Dean sets his jaw and takes one step forward. His legs feel numb, like a shock of electricity has just bolted through them, and they suddenly shake under his weight. 

_Jesus Christ_.

“Do you really think…” and he trails off, shaking his head because it won’t stop spinning and Cas is still too far away and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do in this present situation.

So he steps closer until Cas is within arm’s reach and he swallows hard. His eyes are wet when he lifts them to bore into blue, incredulous. 

“You think that’s all there is for me?” And he hates the way his voice cracks at the end.

When Cas doesn’t respond (which is an answer in itself, Dean supposes) he licks his lips and wrings his hands. Something to do, something to  
ground him. Silence surrounds them for a few moments, or maybe a few minutes. Dean doesn’t know. But he needs to say something, _anything_ , because—

“I never prayed before you.” he settles on hoarsely. His throat is sandpaper and his tongue feels like it’s wrapped in cotton.

“I prayed to you every night in Purgatory...because you’re the only thing I’ve ever believed in. ‘Cuz leavin’ without you wasn’t an option for me. It didn’t matter if it meant bein’ stuck there for another week, or another month or another year. I didn’t want to come back here without you.”

A breath.

“And when I got back..I-I kept seeing you everywhere. On the road, outside of motel windows. In crowded places. It wouldn’t stop. My head,” he presses his forefinger to his temple “had to remember what happened there differently because I couldn’t handle the reality.”

He sniffs as he blinks back tears, dropping his hand next to his thigh.

“Every time you left after that... it just felt like somethin’ was carving into my gut. It felt like there was somethin’ in me that was missing.

“When Lucifer ki—” he drops his gaze then, because now his voice is too thick and his eyes are too flooded and he can’t see a goddamn thing. The tears fall directly to the ground without a blink. When he looks up again, tears keep spilling, but he clears his throat and keeps his voice steady. “I tried to get Billie to take me. I had nothin’ left.”

He closes his eyes at the memory before shaking his head, willing it back into compartmentalization.

“‘n then I thought I lost you again in Purgatory.” Dean’s eyes spill over again. He lets them. Lets them flow like rivers because Cas deserves to see. He deserves to know how deep this goes.

Dean takes a cautious step forward, and reaches out to bunch his hand in the fabric of Castiel’s trench coat.

“When you...did what you did, an-and said what you said...” Dean shakes his head to try to clear his mind. “I could never wash that jacket. Your handprint, it...it was the only thing I had left of you.”

Dean licks his lips nervously and grips the train of the trench coat with both hands, shaking it for emphasis. “I didn’t—god, I didn’t know, Cas. I didn’t know angels could feel or lo-love the way we do. An-and then you drop this huge bomb on me, and I didn’t even get a chance to say anything ‘cuz in the next minute you’re all _sayonara_ into a cosmic black hole, a-and I couldn’t do a _thing_ to stop it.” 

Dean stills then, because he’s a mess from the flood of tears that won’t stop coming, and his voice starts trembling and his breathing is erratic and when he looks at Cas the moon is bathing him in a soft silver glow and everything is just _too fucking much_.

When he feels the tightrope that he’s been treading is about to snap, Cas’s hands are suddenly there covering his. And those hands feel like a safety net amid the raging storm in his mind. Like a soft place to land.

And then Cas takes one trepid step closer, hands stiff and unsure, and he nuzzles Dean’s jaw, nose grazing the stubble its found. His hands reach up to gently, almost hesitantly, cup Dean’s cheeks. Anchoring him to this moment, here by the water by the light of the moon under the oak tree.

The stroke of the pads of Cas’s thumbs against his cheekbones are feather-light.

Dean closes his eyes involuntarily and reaches up Cas’s coat until they grasp either side of the angel’s neck, thumbs pressed against the curved line of his jaw underneath his earlobes.

Cas slants his chin, lips trailing on the outer shell of Dean’s ear before pressing the softest of kisses there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Dean’s breath stutters, because he’s never been touched like this, never been caressed like this, and the intimacy of it all is so profound he feels a jolt of panic in his chest. He grounds himself in Castiel’s embrace, pressing his lips to the bolt of Cas’s jaw.

Then Cas lifts Dean chin and kisses him, smoldering and quiet, smothering the sob that claws its way out from Dean’s throat.

Dean grasps Cas’s chin and angles his mouth because the kiss is a little stiff at first, a little too much teeth, and when he moves just a fraction of an inch, it’s the free fall.

 _There_. 

The stiffness melts into a pliant congruity; Dean’s lips are wet and salty from the moisture on his face, Cas’s soft and dry and taking. The heady juxtaposition of it makes Dean draw Cas even closer. 

He opens his mouth, pressing his tongue softly to the bow of Castiel’s lips. And when Cas lets him in, another pitiful sound escapes Dean’s throat. 

Dean goes all in, and when his tongue brushes and rolls against Castiel’s, he feels another tear escape from his closed eyes.

Cas’s hand drifts slowly to the back of Dean’s head, threading his long fingers through the short strands of hair, giving them a gentle tug. One of Dean’s hands slips around his back underneath both coats, digging his fingers into the muscle of Cas’s shirt-clad back.

It’s only when Dean’s lungs begin to scream that he breaks, parting from Cas’s lips to press their foreheads together, both panting in unison. 

Dean’s hand comes to frame Cas’s face, curling the other into a fist against his chest, and he has his eyes closed as he lets out a whimper.

“It’s always been you,” he says, all sandpaper and gravel and thick with tears. He lightly hits Cas’s chest just above his heart. 

_You_.

Cas nods as he presses his lips to Dean’s forehead, drawing him to his chest as the last of Dean’s resolve crumbles like concrete.

—

The drive home is quiet. 

It’s a twenty-mile trek from the lake to the bunker, and the only sound passing through the car is the wind blowing through open windows. Neither of them have spoken a word since Dean led them silently to the Impala. 

His throat is constricted now. Nausea settles like a harsh weight in his stomach, and he can feel his chest aching and squeezing around his heart. His mind is racing, ruminating, and he’s driving down the interstate on autopilot. He feels dissociated, like he’s floating out-of-body above from where he sits. 

He kind of prefers it, if he’s honest. Everything inside of him is too heavy and intense. His mind is completely devoid of any coherent or rational thought, yet it feels like there’s a hamster running on its wheel. He feels completely broken apart, open and exposed and raw. 

Vulnerable.

He detests vulnerable.

Dean, in all honesty, wishes he could just bolt out of his car while pushing 65, and just run for the hills and never look back. He heaves a sigh and grips the steering wheel with both hands hard enough to leave imprints from the ridges into his skin, knuckles turning white. 

Cas sits silently in the passenger seat, still as stone. Dean only allows himself to glance at Cas in his peripheral vision, eyes never actually leaving the road.

When he pulls into the garage and cuts the engine, the silence is deafening, making his ears ring once again. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears, and it’s racing with such an intensity that he feels like it might break out of his chest.

He tries to breathe. Tries to do that bullshit thing Sam taught him—in for four seconds, hold for seven, exhale for eight—-and he’s surprised that he feels somewhat more grounded after a few tries, and the crushing weight on his chest becomes bearable. 

He won’t tell Sam that though. 

Dean drops his hands from the steering column into his lap, palms up and fingers interlocked. He rests his chin against his chest.

And waits. 

He’s not sure how long they sit there in the paralyzing stillness. He’s afraid to move. He’s afraid to think. He just wants to run and build all of his walls back up again, brick by brick, after they came down like a wrecking ball in Castiel’s arms.

He hates himself even more for letting himself go. The shame runs into the marrow of his bones. Encapsulates every tendon, every nerve, every fiber of his being.

Dean nearly jumps out of his seat when Cas moves to open the passenger side door.

“I’m going to say hello to Sam and Eileen,” he says with an emotion Dean can’t place, and Cas already has the door open when Dean speaks, rough and avoidant.

“Be there in a minute.” 

And then Cas slides out and shuts the door behind him.

Dean shuts his eyes and leans back into the headrest, and he doesn’t realize how much tension he’s been holding in his body until he lets all of his weight sag against the seat.

He’s alone. And it feels safe, familiar, unthreatening. No longer vulnerable. 

His neck and shoulders throb at the sudden shift, and he lifts his hand to knead the back of them, feeling the crunching of muscles and tendons under his fingers. His brain feels like it’s pounding against his skull and he’s so fucking tired. 

Broken. 

His heart is hammering against his rib cage, and his hands begin to shake. Blood roars in his ears as he wraps his other arm around his middle and rocks back and forth.

The nausea in the pit of his stomach grows stronger, feeling like fingers gripping the entirety of his insides, and he licks his lips because his mouth has suddenly gone completely dry. It rolls once, twice, and then Dean is running out of the car to the sink before vomiting violently. He heaves and gags until there’s absolutely nothing left, and he runs the faucet to clean the mess.

When he’s finished, he slides down the wall nearest him and collapses until he’s sitting with his knees bent so he can rest his elbows there. His eyes are red-rimmed and watery, and at this point he isn’t sure if it’s from the exertion or something else. His face is covered in a sheen of sweat and he wipes his brow, catching the beads trickling down his hairline into his sleeve before they reach his eyes.

He lifts his head to the harsh fluorescent lights of the garage, and blindly gropes along the wall before finding the switch, and all the lights turn off with a resounding click. 

Dean drops his head into his hands while choking back a sob, and he runs his fingers through his hair before roughly pulling at the strands. 

The existential dread settles around him like an oppressive blackness, squeezing and crushing his bones and liquifying his limbs. Every muscle in his body aches, and his chest protests with every labored breath, anxiety and panic radiating from his front to his back like a carousel, and it feels like a vice crushing him: a sharp, hot pain.

 _You can’t have this_ , comes a mocking leer in Dean’s head. It’s his own voice. _He can do better. He deserves better. You think you can hold onto that? Think you’re good enough to shack up with a goddamn angel?_

Dean throws his head back to crack it against the wall: once, twice, but his own voice reverberates and taunts even louder around the sharp throb in his skull.

 _Dean Winchester_ , his voice mocks. _The good-for-nothing little soldier. Daddy’s blunt little instrument. Always the ladies’ man. Now you’re gonna, what? Switch things up? Bat for the other team? Ha. What would dad think, huh?_

It’s irrational, Dean knows, all of it’s irrational because one, Dad is dead, and two, he wouldn’t care, right? All John ever cared about was that Dean got the job done. The last time Dean saw him, John told him that he wanted him to have a family, to be happy. Surely it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t with a woman. Right?

He tries, he really does. But none of it sounds convincing at all.

Dean fishes blindly into his pockets, hoping, praying— _yes_ , thank fucking Christ.

He downs the contents of his filled flask in one go. He relishes the burn, welcomes the buzz and the haze. Because this will help. It will.

 _Think that’s gonna be enough to get rid of me? I’m always here Dean_ , the sickening voice in his head sings. _Like an invisible best friend always by your side._

“He loves me,” Dean mutters with a low growl into the empty space around him. “He said—”

 _And you think that matters?! You think any of that matters?! You think that amounts to anything? You’re **nothing** , Dean. You deserve nothing. And Cas will come around to see it eventually and he’ll leave your sorry ass, too. _ The voice in his head is cackling now, and Dean wishes he could throw something at it, punch it, cut it out of his mind but he can’t. So he grips his hair and pulls. His stomach rolls again, but he knows there’s nothing left to come up.

“Stop,” he whispers.”Just _shut up_.” And he’s chanting it over and over like a mantra until his body finally gives in, breaking down into sobs.

—

Sam finds him. 

He’s awakened by shaking. A relentless, jarring thing that Dean wants to shove away.

“Dean, are you alright? Wake up. Dean? Dean!” 

Dean pries his eyes open, sort of. They’re so puffy and dry that he’s only able to see through slits. His vision is cloudy, but he can make out his brother’s outline, and he can feel one hand on his bent knee and the other gripping his elbow.

“Sam,” he groans, the movement of his jaw intensifying the pounding in the back of his head. “ _Ugh_ -” and he reaches a hand to find a goose egg there. He scrunches his eyes shut for a second to try to clear his vision, and thankfully, he sees a little clearer upon opening.

Sam’s face is contorted into something pitiful and concerned, puppy dog eyes on full display. He moves the hand that was on his elbow to the side of Dean’s face, trying to help him focus.

“Hey. What the hell happened?” And Dean doesn’t know how to respond. 

“I ‘unno,” Dean slurs through the parchment paper that masquerades as his mouth. “I got sick.” 

And well, it’s not a total lie. A lie by omission, sure. But still. Small victories.

Dean licks his lips and groans at how dry everything is, and it’s like running his tongue over grains of sand. Sam reaches into his back pocket and pulls out one of those miniature water bottles and hands it to him.

“Here, drink this.” And Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He gulps it down in three mouthfuls and squeezes the bottle flat before replacing the cap.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, and glances around the otherwise empty garage as if forgetting he was here at all.

He looks at Sam questioningly. “What time is it?” he croaks as he cranes his aching neck back to rest his head back against the wall. 

“A little after 9,” he says. “Come on. Let’s get you up.”

Sam reaches under Dean’s arms and starts to lift. “Come on buddy,” and Dean lets himself be half-dragged, half-pulled to his feet. 

When they’re both vertical, Sam claps him on the shoulder and starts to reach his other arm around Dean’s back. 

“Can you walk?” he asks, and Dean only half-rolls his eyes with a grunt, shrugging out of Sam’s offered grip. He cups the back of his head again as the throbbing turns into jackhammering, and all the lights are too bright and the nausea settles in again.

“Did you hit your head?” And Sam’s reaching to pull Dean’s hand away to examine the bump himself in lieu of waiting for an answer.

Dean hisses and instinctively moves to whack Sam’s hand away.

“Sorry, sorry,” he rushes. “I’ll get you some ice and a cold compress for your face. Come on,” and then they’re walking into the bunker stride for stride. Sam clangs the garage door shut, and the sound reverberates through the bunker halls. Dean winces.

“Thanks, Doc,” he mumbles, and Dean can see Sam rolling his eyes without even looking.

Suddenly, Dean comes to a halt, holding up his palm to stop Sam. “Sam, hold up. E-Eileen. Is she-?”

Sam’s face spreads into a grin and drops a hand to Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah. She’s good, man. She’s okay. She’ll be happy to see you.”

Dean releases the breath he’s been holding and smiles. 

He doesn’t bring up Cas.

—

They find Eileen in the kitchen by the fridge after Dean stops in his bedroom to brush his teeth and change into his loungewear. Her smile lights up the whole room when she sees him. Dean grins wide.

He can’t help but bound over to her with a “hey, beautiful” spoken with direct eye contact before wrapping her in a hug and kissing her cheek.

She hugs back just as fiercely, rubbing her hand up and down his back. 

“Hi, Dean,” she says, and he squeezes her tight before letting her go. He makes sure she’s looking at him before speaking again. 

“It’s damn good to see you. You okay?”

Eileen nods. “I’m fine,” she says while signing, then gives him a pointed look. “Are you? You were out there for a while,” and then she’s looking over Dean’s shoulder to Sam, apparently not trusting the answer Dean’s about to give. 

“I’m good,” he says. It’s bullshit.

“Liar,” she says, eyes soft and knowing. She presses her lips together into a thin smile and pats his cheek gently before rounding the island.

“I’m going to bed,” she announces to both of them before stepping into Sam’s awaiting embrace. They kiss softly, and something inside Dean melts because he’s so happy to see them together again. 

_Don’t wait up for me_ , Sam signs before pressing his lips back down to hers. They part, and Eileen waves at Dean.

“Goodnight.”

Dean smiles. “Night.”

Once her footsteps have faded down the hall, Dean turns to open the freezer. “Ice” of course means a bag of frozen veggies, and Sam walks to the sink to soak a washcloth from the cupboard under cold water.

Dean sits down with a groan at the table and presses the bag to the back of his head. Sam hands him the compress before taking his usual seat opposite Dean. He deposits two beer bottles between them.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbles softly, and presses the cool cloth to his aching eyes with a hum, sinking into it.

 _Relief_.

The cold water seeps into his eyelids, his pores, and it feels like rain soaking the desert after a drought. Dean breathes heavy and even, and he would be perfectly happy falling asleep like this.

“What happened?” Sam says more than asks. It’s that no-bullshit tone that Dean’s familiar with when he’s about to be interrogated. His shoulders sag as he braces for it.

“I mean. Cas comes back from the Empty, and you camp out in the garage for a couple hours?” He sounds more concerned than disappointed.

Dean’s instinct is to brush him off, to try to worm his way out of this conversation that he is not ready to have. But his head throbs, his body aches, and he feels like he’s teetering on the proverbial cliff edge. 

_Fuck it_. He jumps.

“I dunno,” he starts, lifting his face from the compress to look Sam in the eye. “Think I had some sort of panic attack or somethin’. Puked, started hearin’ shit, felt like my heart was gonna give out. My mind was racin’ so I cracked it against the wall thinking it would help. Everything was too bright. Guess at some point I passed out ‘cause the next thing I remember you’re shakin’ me awake.” He reaches for a beer bottle and twists off the cap, tossing it with a clatter on the table.

Sam’s quiet for a moment, expression pensive before he speaks.

“Yeah. Sounds like a panic attack.” 

Dean nods around the neck of his beer as he takes a long swig. It’s cold and soothing down his throat, and closes his eyes to relish it.

“Do you know what brought it on?”

 _Nope_ sits on the tip of his tongue, and he rolls it around a few times in his mouth. It tastes bitter, kind of like copper, before turning to dust.

So he shrugs instead. Takes another swig with his eyes to the ceiling.

Sam sighs, this time with a hint of annoyance on the exhale that makes Dean look at him.

“Dean. Come on, man. I’m your brother, all right? You can talk to me about this.”

“Sam—”

“You’re _gonna_ talk to me about this.”

Dean’s shoulders drop of their own volition, and hangs his head because he _does. not. want. this._

He scans his eyes around the room, searching and searching until he finds the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon high up on a shelf. He rises from his seat and grabs it, along with two glasses from the cabinet before slumping back down into his seat. 

He pours himself two fingers before offering Sam a glass.

“I’m good,” is all he says, and Dean twists the cap back on and pushes it to the side before taking a sip, returning the bag of veggies to the back of his head.

He waits for the burn to settle into his belly before he starts. 

“He told me he loved me.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up just a tick before settling back down.

“Cas?” 

He nods with a lick of his lips before taking another pull from the glass.

“Before the Empty came. ‘s how he summoned it.”

A beat. Sam folds his hands together on the table in front of him.

“Wow,” Sam breathes, and it’s zero parts shock and all parts knowing and Dean hates it.

Dean furrows his brow. “Don’t sound too surprised there, Sammy.” And he’s pissed at that because, _what the fuck_ , it turned his whole world upside down. 

“You are?” Sam blinks. “I mean, Dean...it was kinda obvious to everybody for a long time.” It’s not accusatory: is that gentle, soft, ‘confidant’ tone he uses when shit gets serious. Dean can’t decide if he hates it or takes comfort in it.

“Yeah, well...obvious to everybody but me, I guess.” 

“Or you didn’t want to see it...or you just weren’t ready to.” Sam offers, and there he goes, kids gloves ripped off. Dean rolls his eyes and is about to reach over and throttle the guy—

“And I don’t mean it in a dick way,” he amends, and Dean knows he doesn’t. But still. Sam’s quiet for a second before continuing. “This has to do with dad, right?”

Dean freezes. His mouth goes dry, and his vision blurs out of focus as he stares unseeingly into his glass. He can’t move. The paralysis sits in almost instantly and his chest feels like it’s being crushed under concrete. 

“Whoa, hey, all right. Just relax. Dean?” He faintly feels Sam’s hand cover his, trying to shake him out of his trance. But it doesn’t work, and he’s suddenly aware of the blood roaring in his ears, his heart racing, and the quickening pace of his breathing, but oxygen isn’t getting into his lungs, and he can’t hear anything anymore and he’s staring down the rabbit hole again. 

The ice cube being pressed into his palm is not unlike a defibrillator, and it slowly begins to shrug Dean out of his reverie before he’s swallowed whole.

“Here, hold this there.” Sam’s moving Dean’s other hand, bag of veggies plopping on the table, to force him to press the ice cube into his skin until he’s lucid enough to do it himself. 

It takes some time, but after a while, Dean’s heart starts to slow. His eyes adjust. He can feel the pressure in his chest begin to ease, and he’s able to breathe. 

The ice cube has been reduced to a melted mess, with only a chip of it remaining. He reaches over to grab a bunch of napkins out of the dispenser and wipes his hands, then the table. 

“The hell is happenin’ to me,” he grumbles as he scrubs his face roughly with his hand. 

“Trauma,” Sam answers gently. “Trauma and the lack of ever having dealt with it.” 

Dean doesn’t even have it in himself to brush it off. So just rolls his eyes with a nod and drops his head into his hands. Silence settles between them, and Dean revels in it as he focuses on his breathing. He reaches to grab his bourbon and sips it.

“Listen man,” Sam starts. He waits for Dean to meet his gaze before continuing. “I know how you felt about Dad, okay? I know how much you idolized him. But, Dean…he’s gone. And he has been for a long time. You can’t let him have this control over you, you know? I know he had some really shitty ideals when we were growin’ up, but...but I’d like to think he would have eventually come around to accept it. You know?”

Dean just nods mutely. Sam’s words are a grounding, gentle undercurrent to the chaos in his mind, and he takes solace in them.

“And I dunno, man, but I think...I think after he saw us and Mom last year, I really do think he’d want you to be happy. Whatever that looks like.”

Dean nods again, running his thumb over the ridges of his glass. He tumbles Sam’s words in his head, almost like he’s trying them on for size. He wishes. He really does. He hopes that wherever John Winchester is now, that he would want Dean to be happy. And that he really would be able to accept it.

Except Dean doesn’t even know what _it_ is at this point. And the unknown fucking terrifies him. 

He’s thought about guys in the past, sure. He’s found them attractive, found himself curious about the potential of it. But he never allowed his mind to really go there. The only time it ever happened was when Sam was in college, and Dean was too shattered drunk to remember it the next day. It was always something that was kept out of reach, something completely forbidden like the fruit in Eden, and never acknowledged. He’s repressed and shut it down so many times—hell, _every_ time — just like he did anything that would disappoint his father. 

How does he unlearn that? How does he essentially retrain or re-wire everything he’s ever known when it comes to this?

But then he thinks about blue eyes, and something inside him shifts. Because it truly would be as easy as breathing, being with him. They’ve always had that connection, that bond, since Cas pulled him out of hell. It didn’t really begin to click in his head how Dean felt until he lost Cas in that reservoir all those years ago, but still. Maybe it wouldn’t be so much about unlearning a paradigm as it would be about learning to trust the fall. 

Dean’s heart aches. He craves Cas’s presence.

“Do you love him?” comes the quiet inevitability.

“Yes.”

And Dean is surprised at how quickly the answer falls from his lips. He blurts it out before he even has time to register the answer consciously in his mind. And that’s when it hits him, because he understands now that the truth had punched out from within his soul. The same soul that Castiel pieced back together. The same soul that has been screaming to be heard for decades.

“Yes,” he says again for tenacity, and the gravity of its sincerity begins to lift the weight of the world off his shoulders. He falls back against his chair weightlessly and takes a quiet, cleansing breath. 

“Think I have for a long time.”

Sam smiles and nods once. “Yeah,” he says with a small chuckle. Because he knows. Of course he knows.

“So what’re you gonna do?”

Dean rolls his eyes and runs his hand over his face. “I don’t know, Sammy.” It’s not a complete lie.

Sam pulls a face. “Dean, c’mon.” And he cocks his head to the stairs leading out of the kitchen. “He’s up on the roof.”

Dean nods once and rises to his feet. He rounds the table as Sam stands to meet him, gripping him in a hug.

“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” he mutters, clapping Sam’s back before turning to climb the steps. 

“Jerk,” Sam shoots over his shoulder.

“Bitch.”

He turns down the hall and makes a quick pit stop before bounding for the roof.

—

There are stars everywhere. 

One of the perks about living in the Middle of Nowhere, Kansas is the total lack of light pollution. The night sky is always clear and visible for miles on end. It’s one of Dean’s favorite parts about living here. When he opens the door to the roof, a cool gust of wind blows in his face, and he welcomes it with a contented smile and inhales deeply.

The smell of the crisp autumn air cleanses him as it fills his lungs. 

On the exhale, he scans his eyes across the rooftop until they land on a familiar silhouette standing by the ledge. He places the object in his hand against the brick wall and steps in the direction of the ledge, letting the door clang shut behind him. 

Castiel turns his head to the source of the noise, and when he meets Dean’s gaze, he thins his lips in a sort of pained smile before turning his back to look at the sky again. 

And, yeah. Dean doesn’t blame him. He shoves his hands into his pockets and walks the distance until he’s at Cas’s side, and that’s when he notices.

Cas has ditched his normal get up in favor of regular clothes. He wears a soft grey v-neck with black lounge pants, and Dean recognizes them as having once been his before giving them to Cas when he was human. It makes the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. The dark blue sweater he wears isn’t Dean’s, so he figures Cas must have picked it up somewhere along his travels over the years. 

The wind blows again, harder this time, and Dean watches as it sweeps Cas’s hair up over his forehead before it flops down again. Cas draws his zip-up closer.

He looks so painfully, beautifully _human_. The yearning in every bone of Dean’s body makes him crave Cas’s touch. But he won’t. Not yet.

Dean settles for clearing his throat instead. “Hey, Cas,” he murmurs quietly.

The silence is heavy, trepid between them for a few moments. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas eventually says, voice heavy with something Dean can’t identify, eyes still focused on the stars above. “It’s beautiful up here.”

“Hmm,” Dean agrees, eyes searching the sky for constellations he recognizes. He smiles when he finds Delphinus. 

He considers how Cas was there when it was born. When they all were. It still throws him for a loop even after all these years.

“I come up here to think sometimes,” Dean says. “Helps us mere mortals clear the mind when you think about there bein’ a whole galaxy out there.” He takes another step closer, enough for the fabric at their sleeves to brush together. When Cas doesn’t flinch, he lets out a small sigh of relief. 

“Mm,” Cas hums with a nod. 

“I guess there’s more than one for you though, huh?”

Cas gives Dean a small smile as he flits his eyes to him and then back again to the sky.

“More than one.” It’s nostalgic; reminiscent of a lifetime ago.

Silence settles between them, and it’s not entirely uncomfortable. But it leaves Dean too alone with his thoughts, too alone with the demons lurking in the shadows of his consciousness, waiting and poised for an ambush.

“So…” he begins, focusing a sidelong glance at Cas as he kicks at the ground with the toe of his boot. “On a scale of one to ten, how pissed are you at me?”

Cas turns his head to meet Dean’s eyes, and it’s tilted at an angle. Dean’s breath stutters in his chest because the dark blue of Castiel’s sweater makes his eyes pop so that the blues look like marbles. The crease between Cas’s eyes deepens as he furrows his brow.

“I’m not angry with you, Dean,” and it’s sincere, but guarded at the same time. His gaze falls to the space between them.

“No?” Dean questions, green eyes searching for blue. “Surprised you didn’t come lookin’ for me when I didn’t come inside.”

Cas lifts his head and rests a hand on Dean’s elbow, fingers curling around his forearm. “I wanted to give you your space,” he says before letting his hand fall back to his side. “I knew Sam would come for you. Figured it would have been easier that way.” 

The defeat and hurt in Cas’s tone makes him feel like he’s been hit in the backs of his knees, because Dean knows he put it there. Just like he did before.

_I’m dead to you._

There’s a twinge in Dean’s gut as he gazes into Cas’s eyes. They look sad bordered on pained, as if he's waiting to hear bad news that he knows is coming. 

_Fix it._

“Cas, listen,” Dean breathes as he turns so that he’s standing in front of him now. Cas’s chin drops to his chest, avoiding his eyes, so Dean tries to reassure him by wrapping one hand around his wrist. And it seems to work, because Cas is looking up at him again.

“Earlier...it wasn’t because of you. Okay? I just...I kinda spun out. I freaked out. All of my shit just came running for me all at once in different directions. And I just didn’t know what to do or how to handle it, and I just...sorta lost it.“ he trails off then, but only for a moment.

“I dunno if you’ve noticed, but I don’t exactly deal with my crap like I should.”

Cas dips his chin in a nod. “I know,” he whispers. “I’ve noticed.”

“Right. And so when it happens like that, sometimes I just...shut down. I panic. But you _gotta_ know it’s not because of you. It was nothin’ that you did. I just—”

Dean drops his gaze.

“I’m just damaged goods, man. An-and I...I don’t know. Most of the time I feel like I’m just better off alone so that I don’t drag anyone else down with me.”

Dean stops then, eyes downcast to the space between his boots. His eyes are wet, but not enough to spill. He flicks his gaze to the hand on Cas’s wrist, and he hadn’t even noticed that he’d been stroking it with his thumb until now. 

He can feel the heat creep up his neck and settle in his cheeks and in the tips of his ears. He’s not sure if he’s even allowed to show this kind of intimacy yet, and to spill his guts to Cas twice in the same night, it’s...well.

It’s a lot.

So he lets his hand fall against his thigh and sighs heavily. His breath comes out in tiny clouds as the wind gusts again.

Cas’s finger curls under his chin then, and he lifts Dean’s face to bore into his eyes. Dean licks his lips as Cas’s thumb strokes his jaw. It’s a tenderness that makes his heart ache.

“If God had given me another chance at that moment...and the _choice_ to rescue you from hell,” he grits out, splaying his other hand across the span of Dean’s cheek to hold his gaze, “I would do it all over again.”

Dean’s eyes flutter shut and they spill over then. Two perfectly symmetrical drops, and Cas’s thumbs are there to catch them. A shuddered breath escapes Dean’s lips. 

“I love you,” Cas says through unshed tears lodged in his throat. And there’s such a raw sincerity and tenacity in his voice that it makes Dean’s bottom lip tremble.

“I held your soul in my hands,” he goes on. “I rebuilt your body atom by atom. There is _nothing_ inside of you that I haven’t seen, Dean.” Cas chokes on a broken sound as the floodgates burst. Tear tracks glisten down his cheeks.

The pad of Cas’s thumb sweeps over Dean’s cheekbone as both hands come to frame his face. 

“Yours is the purest soul I have ever seen. You have the most giving heart of anybody I’ve ever known. And everything you have ever done your entire life,” one hand falls to rest over Dean’s heart, “has been for love.”

Dean reaches to rest one hand over Castiel’s, the other on his cheek. Dean bends to bump their foreheads together, breath stuttering in his chest, and his fingers curl into his hair.

“And I know you can’t see it,” Cas murmurs gently. “But I want to help you see it. Every day. I want to love you through all of it. For there is nobody else in this world for me but you.”

Cas’s breath is shaky as his voice cracks on the last syllable. He lifts his head to press a warm, delicate kiss to Dean’s forehead before bending to knock them together again.

“You’ve changed me, Dean.”

A breath. 

“I _love_ you.”

Tears cascade down Dean cheeks as he lifts his gaze to search Cas’s. The unabashed adoration he finds there makes his heart plummet leagues inside his chest.

Dean sniffles before dipping his chin to crush their lips together. It’s a slow, hot opened-mouthed kiss at first; a sort of claiming and assuring and exploring all at once. But then Dean needs more, and he grips Cas’s face a little stronger, and presses his tongue against Cas’s seeking own a little harder than what would be necessary.

Cas’s mouth is like silk against Dean, and Dean reaches one arm down to wrap around Castiel’s waist, a moan escaping him as Cas reaches up to tug the short hairs on Dean’s scalp.

It’s a devouring, all-consuming inferno, and it’s somehow the softest place Dean has ever known. Warm and safe and loved; somewhere Dean can lose all pieces of his armor and not worry about where they land. Dean reaches his free hand to cup Cas’s cheek, licking into his mouth with such wanton desire he doesn’t know how his knees don’t give out right then and there.

The intimate consonance of lips and tongue has him reeling; Cas’s tongue flicks and swirls so expertly and effortlessly against Dean’s own, it’s like he was always meant to be there. Dean can’t hold back the moan that rips from his throat. 

In that moment, Dean doesn’t know where his body ends and Cas’s begins.

—

“When?” Dean asks some time later, barely above a whisper, and it feels like the most loaded question in the history of humanity. Maybe it is. 

They’re sitting on the patio furniture Sam and Dean had purchased for the roof a few months ago. Dean insisted on building a portable fire pit, especially for those cold winter nights to keep them warm while watching the sky or cooking on the grill. Their chairs are aligned side by side, and a king-sized throw provides them protection from the late autumn chill.

“I mean, for you...how long—” Dean trails off as he stares into the dancing flames, hand clasped into Cas’s over the blanket. Cas’s thumb rubs against the back of his hand as reassurance that _yes, this is okay_. 

He can’t get the question out coherently, but Cas knows what he’s asking. Of course he does. 

Cas is thoughtful for a moment, as if he were looking at the dates on a calendar inside the stars. Dean watches him in his periphery as he sips his beer, swallowing roughly. 

“It’s funny,” Cas says as he looks into the fire, “because as an angel, I wasn’t familiar with the prodigy of human emotions. But knowing what I know now, having been on Earth for as long as I have, it…”

Cas trails off for a moment, pensive as he looks at their entwined hands before canting his eyes to the stars again.

“I was standing in a ring of holy fire when it happened for the first time.”

Dean’s head snaps up then, and he stares sideways at Cas, brow furrowed.

“I knew...when I saw the pain of my betrayal on your face, that I felt something more for you than just as my charge. I knew it was something different, something more profound, because the way I felt about you versus Sam…it was different.” He glances down at his feet as he trails off. 

Dean tilts forward so that his arms rest on his knees, and gives Cas’s hand a gentle squeeze. When Cas looks up to the stars again, the flames are reflected in shining blue pools.

“I didn’t know what it was at first. But I would have given anything in that moment to absolve your hurt and your pain, because knowing I was responsible for it..it was the worst thing I’d ever felt.”

Dean’s throat constricts. His stomach churns at the memory.

Castiel sighs heavily as he licks his lips and swallows. “And then with everything that happened in Purgatory...hearing your prayers every night, and needing to do everything in my power to keep you safe—”

Cas blinks slowly, and Dean watches as tears roll down his cheeks. He’s silent for several minutes before speaking again.

“I knew I loved you then. But it wasn’t until Naomi that I really understood the magnitude of it.”

Dean cocks his head with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

Cas gives a rueful smile. “I think the other angels knew long before I did. Naomi certainly knew. She saw that you were the only obstacle in her mission to fully brainwash me to her side.”

Cas squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again. He stares unseeingly towards the horizon.

“She made copies of you in Heaven. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. And she forced me to kill every single one of them to condition me to kill you.” Cas doesn’t flinch as tears roll down his face. Doesn’t make a move to swipe them away.

Dean tips back in his seat, almost like he’s been sucker punched, and scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus, Cas.” 

Cas tilts his chin as he watches the smoke rise from the pit and nods, as if coming to a conclusion. “You asked me then what broke the connection.”

Cas’s eyes meet Dean’s, shiny and watery as tears slip down his cheeks. 

“You did.”

His eyes fall to their joined hands.

“And that’s when I knew I had fallen in love with you.” 

Cas’s voice is solid as stone despite the emotion on his face. Steadfast. Reverent. 

“Every day after that,” he shrugs, “it was just being. Constant. It became a second skin.”

Dean’s eyes burn for the umpteenth time that night. He doesn’t try to hold them back as they spill over. He never knew. God, he never—

He leans into Cas’s space then, and wraps his arms around his waist, leaning his forehead into Cas’s shoulder as Cas’s arms encircle his back. 

He sniffles as Cas runs soothing circles against him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dean whispers. It’s a broken, barely audible thing. But the angel must have heard, because then Cas grips him even tighter and presses his lips into Dean’s hair. 

They stay like that a while: listening to each other’s breathing, the crackling of the fire, the wind blowing softly around them. Crickets chirp in the distance in tandem with the calls of mockingbirds.

—

Dean leans back into his chair, left hand draped over Cas’s knee, the other nursing a fresh beer. He stares pensively into the flames, watching sparks from the air pockets float up and disappear.

“It was there for me, too,” he muses after a time into the space between them.“What kind of couple’a dumbasses fall in love in monster land, huh?”

Cas’s mouth twitches up, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Our kinds of dumbasses, I suppose.”

“Hm,” Dean agrees, and he smiles as Cas trails a thumb over the back of his knuckles.

An idea comes to his mind then.

“Y’know...” he begins, leaning forward and pushing himself out of his chair. He walks over to the corner brick wall of the roof.

Dean picks up the guitar and returns to his seat, and he leans over to grab the last log off the ground and throws it into the fire. Dean settles the instrument against his torso on his knee, letting one hand lean over the body, and wraps the other around the neck. 

“Been wantin’ to do this for a while,” he says, eyes downcast while picking at the strings.

The wings on the fretboard gleam in the light of the flames. Cas straightens in his seat, arms resting on his thighs.

Dean strums the guitar a couple of times, tuning the keys where needed and testing it again, alternating between picking and full strums. He glances at Cas through his eyelashes and throws a shy smile his way. 

“A’right. Think I got it,” Dean whispers under his breath before clearing his throat. The slow bloom of Cas’s smile makes the butterflies in Dean’s stomach flutter. 

Dean nods before inhaling deeply, and begins playing the opening chords.

_If I ever were to lose you,  
I'd surely lose myself.  
Everything I have found here,  
I've not found by myself.  
Try and sometimes you'll succeed,  
To make this man of me:  
All my stolen missing parts,  
I've no need for anymore. _

Dean looks up at Cas over the open fire, letting his face melt into a smile before glancing down again.

_I believe,  
And I believe 'cause I can see;  
Our future days,  
Days of you and me._

_Back when I was feeling broken,  
I focused on a prayer:  
You came deep as any ocean,  
Did something out there hear? _

Dean gives a knowing grin then, a breathy chuckle escaping mid-verse. It’s funny, he thinks, how much it resonated with them.

_All the complexities and games  
No one wins, but somehow, they're still played  
All the missing crooked hearts  
They may die, but in us they live on_

_I believe...  
And I believe 'cause I can see.  
Our future days,  
Days of you and me._

_When hurricanes and cyclones raged,  
When wind turned dirt to dust;  
When floods they came or tides they raised,  
Ever closer became us. _

He can’t help as one corner ohis mouth pulls up into a half-grin.

_So persistent in my ways,  
Hey, Angel, I am here to stay.  
No resistance, no alarms;  
Please, this is just too good to be gone._

_I believe.  
And I believe 'cause I can see,  
Our future days,  
Days of you and me.  
You and me,  
Yeah just you and me. _

Dean lifts his chin, a bashful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He places the guitar back on the ground, letting it rest against the patio table next to him.

Dean releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as he reaches for his beer and takes a swig. He avoids Cas’s gaze, and he hates the insecurity swirling in his gut. Hates the nerves and chagrin and the second guesses. His eyes bore holes into the ground between his feet as he rolls his beer between his palms. 

Cas’s hand falls on his knee with a squeeze. 

“Thank you.” It’s a hoarse whisper, and Dean isn’t surprised at the watery gaze he sees when he lifts his chin. 

Dean shakes his head, and there’s a pang of guilt that slams into his chest. He leans forward on his elbows into Cas’s space.

“Should’ve said somethin’ sooner.”

“No,” Cas says, lifting his chin to look him in the eye. “We have now. That’s enough.”

Dean nods once, straightening to rest back against his seat. The fire has died down to tiny flames licking the charred stacks of wood.

Dean’s heart aches, a sharp stab from somewhere underneath his rib cage. He clenches his jaw and squeezes Cas’a hand.

He knocks his head against the backrest of his chair. “I’m scared, Cas,” he breathes, staring up at the sky.

Cas’s hand settles on Dean’s thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze before stroking back and forth over his knee with his thumb.

“Of what?”

Dean clasps his hands together in his lap, picking at the label on his beer with a heavy sigh.

“Of fuckin’ this up. Hurting you. Lettin’ you down. Losin’ you. Take your pick.” He draws his bottom lip between his teeth as he stares intensely at the flannel pattern of his sleep pants. 

“I’m scared of how much I love you.”

It’s a quiet, heavy, broken thing. It's the fall of the last of Dean’s walls as the final bricks crumble. It’s a heady revelation, a brutal truth, unearthed after years of burial and denial and avoidance. 

It’s the breaking of the dawn for the hopes of tomorrow. 

Dean heaves a breath, letting his eyes wander back to the stars. They twinkle, almost like an encouragement. Dean has the corner of his beer label peeled off when he feels a hand cover his. 

“Look at me, Dean.”

He doesn’t want to; he’s scared of what he’ll find—or maybe of what he won’t find— in Castiel’s eyes. He watches as the smoke billows from the dying fire in a tiny ring in the air and disappears in the distance. 

He glances sideways, not moving his head, to look at Cas. 

“You don’t need to be afraid. I’m here. For as long as you want me to be.”

A pause. Dean mulls it over for only a moment.

“Forever okay with you?”

He tries to pass it off nonchalantly. He really does. But Cas sees straight through him, just like always. The pressure in Dean’s chest releases when Cas smiles at him through fanned eyelashes.

“I think that can be arranged.”

Dean doesn’t try to conceal the chortle that escapes his chest, and lets Cas’s assurance seep into the marrow of his bones and flow through his veins. 

“Okay.”

A soft gust of wind caresses his skin as he lets out a yawn, exhaustion creeping in. His eyes fall to the dying fire before them. 

“Ready to head in?” he asks.

Cas smiles. “Of course.”

—

When they approach Dean’s door, Cas’s hand falls on Dean’s shoulder as he leans to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” he whispers, and then makes to head to his own room. Dean is quick to grab Cas’s wrist. 

“No, Cas. Stay. Stay with me.” And he reaches up to brush his thumb along the stubble of the angel’s jaw. His heart hammers when Cas leans into it. 

“Please?” 

Cas’s mouth spreads into a small smile, and Dean turns to lead him inside. The bedroom is bathed in a soft glow from the lamp on his bedside table, and he reaches around Cas’s shoulder to shut the door behind them. He lets his hand brush against Cas’s back, and he grins at the shiver it elicits in response. 

“You okay?” he murmurs softly in the crackling space between them, thumb and forefinger coming to grasp his chin. 

“Yes.” But it’s a little breathy, a small crack in Castiel’s chassis. He’s nervous too, Dean knows, and it makes Cas even more endearing than he already was.

Dean smiles a small, wolffish thing before turning to walk deeper into the bedroom, and Cas stays rooted to the spot.

“Take your sweater off, stay a while,” he quips.

Dean goes to shrug off his jacket, hanging it on the back of the desk chair when he sees Cas removing his zip-up. The grey v neck looks sinister on him, hugging all of the muscles and curves at his biceps and pectorals. When he arches back to pull at the sleeves, Cas’s shirt rises up just an inch. Dean’s mouth goes dry at the swath of skin at his navel that shows between the hem of his shirt and the rise of his pants. 

Dean’s eyes scan lower, falling to the bulge in the black fabric. 

Blood surges south and Dean bites his lower lip and swallows thickly. He breathes deep and slow, and averts his eyes before Cas can catch him staring. Dean hums under his breath as he reaches to pull his shirt over his head when he lets out a groan. 

_“Sonofabitch”_ he curses under his breath. Cas’s hand is on his bicep almost instantly.

“What’s wrong?”

Dean just shakes his head as he rolls his rotator cuff, trying to work out the crick. “Nah, nothin’. Just my shoulder. Gettin’ old.” 

Cas gently presses his fingers into the muscles of Dean’s shoulder under the neck of his shirt to examine them. His fingertips are fire on his bare skin.

“You’re stiff,” he deduces. “Sit down. Let me,” and he leads Dean to his bed so he can sit perpendicular to the mattress. Cas slides in behind him on his knees, hands snaking to graze Dean’s sides, pulling up the hem of his shirt over his head. He tosses it to the hamper in the corner and runs his hands up Dean’s arms before placing them at the slope of his shoulders.

“Is this okay?” 

Dean lets out a puff of laughter. “‘Course it is.”

It’s all the assurance Cas needs, because then his hands are gently digging into the flesh of taut muscles.

“ _Ugh_ ,” Dean groans and lets his neck go slack as Cas works. His fingers are heaven, and he can feel the crunching underneath them. 

“You carry all of your tension here,” Cas muses, voice low. His thumbs rub circular patterns at the base of Dean’s neck, then reaches to lift Dean’s right arm outwards. Cas returns his hands to beneath Dean’s shoulder blade and rubs vigorously. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” he hisses through clenched teeth. 

“Try to relax, Dean,” Cas murmurs gently. “This will help release the knot.” 

So Dean breathes slowly, in and out, as Cas continues to work at the stubborn muscles. When it starts to feel bruised, Cas reaches one hand to grasp Dean’s outstretched elbow, the other resting on Dean’s bare hip. Cas leans closer against Dean’s back until he’s flush against it.

“Relax”, he whispers warmly in Dean’s ear, lips brushing the shell, causing Dean to shudder as goosebumps erupt everywhere. Cas slowly lifts Dean’s elbow to his head. 

The knot releases with a resounding pop. Dean blows out a breath in relief as he rolls his shoulder back and forth.

“Oof. Y’got magic in those fingers, angel,” Dean slurs and leans back into Cas’s front, sinking into him as Cas’s arms wrap around his torso, hands splayed across his belly. Cas rests his chin on the relieved shoulder.

“I didn’t use any grace.”

Dean chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Different kinda magic there, Cas.”

“Oh. Right.”

Dean smiles, shifting to press his nose against Cas’s jaw. He smells like woodsmoke and earth before a storm. “Thanks.”

“Do you want me to do the other?”

Dean shakes his head as he leans further back, feeling the delicious hard line of Cas’s erection against his tailbone. Cas’s lips fall naturally to Dean’s neck, and he sucks a bruise into the pulse point, tongue lavishing at the salty, freckled skin. 

“Mm,” Dean hums, head lolling back into the crook of Cas’s neck and captures his lips, licking into the hot, wet cavern of Castiel’s mouth. 

_Fuck_.

Cas’s hands slowly graze the expanse of Dean’s chest, brushing over his tattoo before swirling lopsided figure-eights around his nipples, thumbs caressing them to hardness.

Dean lets out a whimper into Cas’s mouth as his cock begins to strain in his boxers. Cas’s tongue rolls against Dean’s and he reaches his hands down Dean’s front, letting his palms run against the ripples of muscle and bone and the pudge at his navel. 

Dean breaks from Cas’s mouth for air, gasping and panting as he turns to face him. Cas’s hands are around his back, and then he’s flipping Dean over onto the mattress beneath him.

“Cas,” Dean groans as he cards his hand through thick, black hair before reaching to frame his face. Cas dips his chin, seeking Dean’s mouth again and presses inside. Cas is like velvet, and Dean _aches_. 

His hands reach down a perfectly sculpted back, pulling Cas’s shirt over his head before capturing his lips again. He runs his hands up Cas’s bare chest and brushes his thumbs against the tiny peaks and traces circles there.

Cas moans, deep and throaty into Dean’s mouth, and lets his weight settle on top of him. Dean can feel Cas’s cock twitching against his thigh, and his hands snake inside the back of Cas’s pants, cupping his ass. He arches his back to rut against him. 

“ _God, Cas_ ,” Dean breathes, and he tries to push Cas’s pants down, but Cas’s hands are on his to stop him.

“No,” he murmurs gently as he kisses the bolt of Dean’s jaw, licking at the hollow beneath his ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Something cracks inside of Dean’s chest at the tenderness in his voice. Not trusting himself to speak, Dean simply nods and lets his hands fall to his sides.

Castiel sits upright, slender fingers reaching inside the bands of Dean’s pants and boxers to gently push them down over his ass and down his bow legs, cock springing free from its constraints. Cas throws them haphazardly over his shoulder before settling on his belly in between Dean’s knees.

Dean reaches beside him to thread his fingers between Cas’s as their eyes meet. 

“Are you sure?” Cas whispers in the bow of Dean’s legs. “We can wait.”

Dean squeezes his hand and drops his head to the pillow. “ _Fuck_ , Cas. _Please_.”

Cas smiles and starts pressing kisses on the insides of Dean’s knees, licking a hot trail up to his inner thighs. His free hand cups Dean below his shaft before he wraps his slender fingers around his twitching, aching arousal, thumb brushing against the weeping tip.

“ _Oh_ ,” Dean cries out, bucking up off the bed closer to Cas’s touch.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I’ve got you,” and his thumb rubs tantalizing circles around him again. Dean’s cock is gorgeous; heavy and thick and pink and wet in Cas’s grasp, and he bends to press a kiss to the head, sweeping his tongue back and forth over the leaking slit, lavishing the taste that is purely and simply, Dean.

Dean groans a primal, guttural sound, rolling his eyes into the back of his head at the feel of Cas’s mouth on him: warm and slick and velvet. And he swears he’s never been more aroused in his life. 

“Cas,” he gasps. “Please, sweetheart,” and the pet name falls off his tongue so naturally it stirs something in his belly. Dean reaches his free hand to thread his fingers through Cas’s hair, and pulls gently.

“ _Please_.”

Cas takes Dean fully into his mouth then, sucking and hollowing his cheeks greedily as he bobs up and down. He licks a hot stripe down the sensitive vein underneath, and that same guttural sound tears itself from Dean’s throat again.

Cas moans around him, and the vibration of Cas’s throat against him is exquisite. He begins to thrust slowly into Cas’s mouth, and Cas takes everything Dean gives, over and over again. 

Need claws in Dean’s gut, the need to be closer, the need to have, and he reaches his fingers around Cas’s neck to pull him up.

“C’mere,” he breathes, crushing their mouths together in a filthy, bruising kiss. The taste of himself on Castiel’s lips is spellbinding. 

Dean reaches down between them, palming at Cas’s thinly-covered cock, hard and rigid beneath his fingers. Cas tears his mouth away to arch his back, grinding into Dean’s hand with a moan.

“ _Oh, Dean_ ,” he whispers as he grinds down again. 

“Yeah, you like that, huh?” And Cas draws his bottom lip between his teeth as he nods, blue eyes blown with lust and hooded and fucking _beautiful_. 

Dean’s other hand slips down the back of his pants, caressing his ass as he kisses him again. “Get these off,” he mumbles into Cas’s mouth before shoving the last barrier between them down and off his legs.

They lay flush together for a moment, skin to skin, until Cas starts grinding against Dean’s throbbing erection with his own. Dean smiles and pecks Cas’s lips before motioning him to move. 

“Sit with your back against the headboard,” Dean commands, and when Cas gets situated, Dean settles between Cas’s legs, eyeing his flushed, curved arousal. 

“Bend your knees, angel,” Dean coos as he presses his nose to the soft patch of dark hair below Cas’s navel, lips teasing Cas’s tip. Cas acquiesces, and then Dean licks him from base to tip before taking all of Cas into his mouth.

He is fucking delicious.

Cas knocks his head back against the finished wood and anchors a hand into Dean’s hair, gripping and releasing with stunted breaths. 

“Oh, Dean,” Cas pants, his other hand coming to cup the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean’s tongue rolls over the angel’s slit and he moans at the taste.

“Mm,” Dean hums around Castiel’s cock before doing it again, wrapping his fingers along its base, pumping and squeezing in tandem with the bobbing of his head. Cas’s neck arches back as he begins to move in Dean’s mouth. 

Cas’s legs soon begin to squirm on either side of Dean’s head and Dean reaches up his free hand to rest on Cas’s thigh, thumb brushing back and forth on his skin. Dean lets off with a wet pop, but continues to stroke Cas slowly.

“Breathe, baby,” he purrs. “Just breathe for me. Don’t want you lettin’ go just yet.”

So Cas does, breathing deep and slow into his belly before exhaling and grinding into Dean’s grip. Dean presses wet, open-mouthed kisses inside Cas’s thighs.

Dean’s cock throbs beneath him, and that familiar pang of need grips him again.

When he looks at Cas through his eyelashes, Dean has to stifle a moan at the sight. Castiel looks absolutely wrecked, neck arched back, black hair flat against the headrest, panting through parted lips. 

“So fucking beautiful,” Dean murmurs as he licks a hot line up Cas’s stomach and chest, grazing over aching nipples before devouring his mouth. Cas’s hands grip both sides of his face as Dean grinds low against him again and again, cock to cock.

“ _Wanna be inside you_ ,” Dean whimpers into Cas’s mouth before pressing his lips to his ear. “Please,” and he chokes on a sob because he needs; needs Cas like nothing he’s ever known. 

“Yes,” Cas whispers with a kiss to Dean’s temple, lips trailing lower to suckle his earlobe. “Yes.”

It doesn’t take long until Cas is ready and squirming beneath Dean’s fingers, and Dean reaches a hand beneath his back to flip them over, Cas settled on top of him. Dean swallows thickly, meeting midnight blue eyes. 

“In the drawer,” he mumbles softly. Dean’s hands settle on the swell of Cas’s hips, grazing circles over the bones with his thumbs as he watches Cas reach into Dean’s bedside drawer for the bottle. Cas bends down to kiss Dean soundly, tongue grazing the roof of his mouth before he parts. Dean’s heart jackhammers in his chest, and he sucks in a breath, letting it out slowly in attempt to calm his nerves. His breath hitches when he feels Cas’s hand slicking him up, but relaxes again when both hands come to caress his face.

Cas’s thumb traces the line of Dean’s chin before carding his hand through Dean’s disheveled hair. He rocks minutely into Dean’s belly as he bores into blown forest-green eyes. 

“Are you ready?” Cas breathes, rocking against him again. Dean grips Cas’s sides and nods.

“Yeah. Please, Cas— _oh_ ,” and all coherent thought leaves Dean’s mind as Cas angles his hips, guiding Dean inside until they’re flush pelvic bone to pelvic bone. 

“God, Cas,” Dean whimpers, head thrown back into the pillow, pulling out slowly to thrust back into the sheath. 

Cas cranes his neck back from the sheer bliss of having Dean buried deep inside of him, before bending to rest his forehead against Dean’s chest. He peppers open-mouthed kisses to the sweat slicked skin, marking a trail from the top of Dean’s rib cage, up his sternum, to the column of his neck. Cas’s tongue licks a hot line from the crook of Dean’s neck to his earlobe as he begins to rock in harmony with Dean’s thrusts. 

“ _Ar turbs, ol boaluahe_ ,” Cas whispers into Dean’s ear. Something blooms in his chest at the sound of Cas’s native language on his tongue as he reaches for his face, plundering inside Cas’s mouth.

Their movements soon become erratic, and Dean wraps his hand around Cas’s twitching length, squeezing and pumping as Cas continues to move, burying Dean so deep inside of him until—

 _There_.

Cas cries out as Dean thrusts again, hitting the same spot. 

“You’re so good, Cas,” Dean pants, closer and closer to the edge as Cas grinds on him again. He quickens the pace of his fist as Cas throws his head back.

“Dean—I’m..I’m,” Cas babbles, completely lost in the intimate friction between them.

“Yeah, I know. Me too. C’mon, baby, I gotcha. Let go,” and Dean gives a firm squeeze with a flick of his wrist, and Cas shouts as he comes apart in Dean’s palm between them, grace shining out from behind his eyes. It only takes three more thrusts, and then stars explode from behind Dean’s eyelids as he shatters inside Cas, and then they are perfectly still. 

Ragged, panting breaths fill the air around them as Cas lowers his forehead to Dean’s, and Dean lifts his chin to kiss Cas’s mouth softly.

Cas collapses on top of Dean’s chest as Dean’s arms wrap around him.

—

They’re buried into the cocoon of Dean’s bed sometime later, cleaned and spent and boneless, Cas cradling Dean in the crook of his arm while running his fingers languidly through sandy brown hair. 

Dean sighs heavily and wraps the arm draped over Castiel’s chest a little tighter, interlocks his fingers with Cas’s over his abdomen. Cas kisses his crown as Dean strokes his thumb over Cas’s, feather-light.

“What did you say?” Dean asks in the stillness. Cas’s fingers stall in their movements as Dean peers up at him.

“Before. Sounded like Enochian.”

Cas’s hand tenses in Dean’s grasp as he sighs, thinning his lips into a shy smile. He swallows thickly, nodding once. His eyes are fixated on a spot on the floor, avoiding Dean’s stare.

“It, um. It loosely translates to ‘So beautiful, my love’ in English.” 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. He’s not used to this. Not used to the complete adoration that Cas gives him, not used to the aftercare or anything resembling this.

He’s not used to love. 

He wants to protest, wants to crack a joke to brush it aside. He wants to tell Cas that he should save such things for someone else. Someone worthy. 

But for the life of him, he can’t. Instead, his voice shakes.

“Say it again?” And it’s like he has no control over the words that tumble out of his mouth anymore. Cas finally meets Dean’s eyes again and leans in close.

“ _Ar turbs, ol boaluahe_ ,” Cas repeats slowly into his ear. 

Maybe Dean gets goosebumps, chick flick moments be damned. 

Whatever. He loves chick flicks. 

He huddles in closer with a yawn, and Cas’s fingers resume stroking his hair. His eyelids begin to feel heavy, and Cas leans over to turn the bedside lamp off. They nestle close together in the dark, sinking deep down into the mattress and pillows.

“Sleep,” Cas says with a kiss to Dean’s crown. “I’ll watch over you.”

Dean lets out a breath, half sigh, half chuckle. 

“Y’know what my mom used to tell me? Every night before she tucked me in?”

Dean can feel Cas’s cheek lift up from the top of his head in question.

“‘Angels are watching over you.’” 

Cas settles his cheek back into Dean’s hair. “I like that,” he murmurs. 

Dean lets his eyes flutter shut as Cas’s fingers continue to lull him to sleep. He shifts to pillow his head on the angel’s chest, and silence settles softly between them.

“Hey, Cas?” 

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

The last thing Dean feels before succumbing is Cas’s lips on his temple. 

“I love you too.”


End file.
